Let Her Go
by HavasuWhiskey
Summary: One cannot simply experience something without first experiencing its counter part.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: Hello there, this happens to be my attempt at indulging my discomfort zone. This is not my first FanFiction, but it is my first in this realm and I have done what I could assume is my best with nervous fingers. I suppose it's a one shot that could be left open ended or close ended depending on who is reading it. So, if it were something that readers want to see more of from a new author, I'd take on the challenge of attempting it.**_

 _ **I rated it M as a precaution in case future chapters were added, and because I wasn't quite sure if the darker nature would count for the Maturity. Well, I suppose that is all, and I hope that I have done at least something correct even if it's just one sentence or word, by putting this out there. I accept constructive criticism, however comments left simply to berate myself or writing with nothing to offer in the corrections department will be deleted. I understand not everyone will enjoy, like or appreciate what I have to write and I highly respect that opinion. However, if that were the case, do just keep it to yourself unless you have something constructive to offer that would better my abilities. I hope that those who come along do find enjoyment and leave a review or simply just come along and read it. Have a great day.**_

Three candle lights burned low and those dark eyes shimmered with their reflections. This is how it was now, a crystal tumbler warming in the palm of a calloused hand as dwindling flames lit the den. Soft acoustics played delicately across the walls and obsidian eyes stared off into blackness. He could miss things, because at one time, he had things. Just like the candlelight that was fading. He could watch it fade and bring it back to life in a mere set of seconds. But he longed to miss something that wasn't auburn curls or whiskey eyes. So he let them die so he could miss it. The light. The darkness enveloped him as the warmth of the firewhiskey settled down his throat.

When his chest constricted with the last passing drop of the burning liquor, he wondered depressingly if he'd ever let something last. Whether it was a dream in the dead of night or the wonderful taste of alcohol that soaked his tongue and made him long for her taste again. Just one thing to last in his life would sate him until death. He'd watched those around him that he grew up with sate themselves. Whether it was with riches that lasted and would continue to last until their spawns were grown, or if it was with love in a partner that had bore children for them. He could feel low, because he'd felt high. And truly one couldn't feel the latter without once experiencing the former.

It wasn't until the snow began to fall when that sting began to crawl its way through his limbs; making his fingers shake and crooked teeth to clench. Everything in this life comes slow, and seems to fade all too quickly. With one mistake, one misstep or one wrong word, It could all be gone and there was never a way to bring it back. At least not back to where it was before it had been ruined. When he rose to his long lanky legs and stepped into the chill of the dead of night, the aches in his joints screaming at him to go back to the warmth. But he didn't deserve the warmth. After what he'd done throughout his dreadful life. After what he'd done to that sweet skin that was so soft against his roughened.

He didn't see those lips anymore when his tired lids closed at the break of dawn. No, now he saw those long legs strolling along the banks of the Black Lake; her auburn hair blowing in the freezing breeze and he wanted to run to her, wrap her in his robes and pull her lithe frame against his; allowing his warmth seep into her body. Her soul. But everything he touched either died or disappeared. For the better, he assumed. Because how could he be better than anything out there? He couldn't. He was nothing to compare to, unless death was the former or pain. Nowadays it wasn't his heart that hurt when her voice rang through the halls. It was his entire being, as if the staccato that burst from her lips was a full body torture device to him. So he sucked down more of that sweet burn and let her go all over again.

The cruelty of his love was his fate; it was the biggest of his faults. A searing blade to anyone who came with reach of him. He had been told once before that he dives too deep too fast and allow the ocean to drown him in a sweet dance. He didn't listen back then, and he hadn't listened this time either. This was who he was, fierce with loyalty and demanding in passion. He couldn't change, and there wasn't a drive there to make him want to. It was a cruel, cruel thing to be, he knew. But a part of his psyche loved it. Fed off it and starved him in the process. It raked its nails down his back leaving fresh wounds for him to lick; it stretched the hole in his chest with long bony fingers as a reminder of whom he was. A black hole.

When those dragon hide boots shuffled back into the stone confines of his chambers, wrist joints too sore to twist and peel clothing off, the lanky frame that was his shell fell face first into his sheets. Too wide nostrils burned with that sweet smell. It was disgusting, his stomach churning at the scent. His head beginning to spin he flipped to his back and stared once more up at the ceiling watching the shadows dance and taunt him. Passionate shadows that writhed and moaned his name, that swirled around with eyes closed and lips parted with ecstasy. No matter where he turned, stepped, looked, she was there. With those plump pink lips and those whiskey brown orbs that widened at the sight of him.

Those shadows would continue their dance of incessant passion until dawn broke through the one window in his chambers. He'd hear that soft whisper of his name until the bustle of students hit the hallways and seeped through the cracks of his doors. When his eyes finally fell shut, the fireplace would re light itself with the face of a longtime friend reminding him sweetly to rise and prepare for class. It was a constant checking in on since he let her go and the bitterness that quaked through him begged for it to end. Because what was the reminder for? To show him that at least one thing hadn't been ruined? Or to show him that he in fact did ruin everything and to make himself an exception to the rule.

Being another day without sleep, the temper that made him famous through these magical walls, did nothing to try and hide. Scathing words brought first and second years to their knees with salty streaks on innocent cheeks. Stiff knuckles cracked when demanding attention against stiff oak wood, and shoulders creaked with every slam of the heavy door. A gentle but firm warning caressed his ears from the same wrinkled lips that tried to motivate him in the early hours of the day. And when the hand that belonged to that withered old body touched his shoulder with the softest of squeezes, he allowed his eyes to close and relish the feeling.

 _My boy_ were the only words he allowed her to speak before he wrenched that shoulder away and gave her his back. He didn't need the pity though what she was offering was far from it. Those dreadful claws that held the hole in his heart open abandoned their post and reached out for those brittle fingers once more. Wanting one more thing to taunt him with, the pathetic ness that it would bring, the loathing that would wrap around him, those fingers wanted nothing more than to wrap him in it for eternity. But he didn't want that anymore, he'd never wanted it.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note: Even though there were only two reviews implying a like for continuation, it seems it was enough. This second installment is from Hermione's perspective, which means only one thing more. That there will be an installment featuring the two beloved souls. Whether they come together or drift apart will be unknown. You'll have to read it to find out. Enjoy.**_

The breeze that caressed her bare shoulders made the slender arms attached reach out in a subconscious gesture for something that wasn't actually there. Bourbon colored eyes slip closed, delicate ears prick to listen for a timbre that won't come. Never again, at least. A beating heart underneath small breasts beats in time with a pulse she used to trace with her tongue. She remembers everything; savoring the memories of dark pools that traced her body, agile pale fingers that grasped her with a tenderness that would make a new mother jealous. If she tilted her head just right, she could almost feel the ghost of black strands stroking her cheek. But, like the figure and the fingers and the breath, it too was absent. A reminder that she was painfully alive and beautifully alone.

Some nights, as her manicured bare feet caressed the grassy banks of the Black Lake, she thought she could see him. And she'd find herself reaching out even though nothing was there but the ghosts of the full moon. But she searched nonetheless. Needing to feel those fingertips once more, her tongue seeking him out wondering if he could hear her. Rationally, he could not. She was alone out there on the banks, but a part of her refused to believe such a thing. He would always be near her. He may have left her, may have gripped her heart in a vice and wrung it out, but he would always be near. _I'm alive._ She'd tell herself as if that somehow would convince her that what transpired wasn't enough to figuratively kill her.

She hadn't seen him since, and sometimes she thought it for the better; and then she'd wander the grounds begging for him to take her hand once more and pull her around his billowing capes in the drama that was _him._ When she's in bed and the dawn is committing the crime of breaking and entering, she sees him once more. She can feel him all around her as the air she breathes inflates her lungs. If she closes her eyes at the right moment, and breathes in that calming manner she was taught as an anxiety ridden child, it's as if he's laying next to her stroking her hair. It's almost as if his cologne and natural musk intoxicates her and then chokes her as a cruel and bitter reminder that it's all fake.

She's not used to this. She's not used to the empty chill of her bed sheets, or the helpless feeling that creaks her bones together. When she sits at that table, and her gaze flickers over just to find the wing backed chair empty, her brain whispers _I love you_. No one is listening, not even herself. But it's there and it wraps around her like a blanket of fall air that makes one shiver and skin rise in goose bumps. _I'm alive._ She'll tell herself, and pray that what she feels as she strolls around the castle is him in the shadows. He is there, she knows it. She's been told by his confidant, but nothing more. Just that he is there. He exists but not to her and that's how he wants it. She knows, and though she has not quite accepted it, she knows.

And the day she does accept it, he'll come out of the shadows and grace her with those beautiful angles and deep pools that are uniquely him. His presence won't cause palpitations or loss of breath, he'll just be _there._ And that is what he wants. To just be there; nothing more to her or for her. It's a tragic break for her when she stalks the halls and catches a glimpse of the tail of those stark black robes. It's not fair, but he of all people believes that a mantra. _Life is not fair._ _I'm alive._ __And even though he begged her to let him take her hand, and she gave it over as if giving a flower to a friend, he'd whispered a promise he couldn't keep. She'd seen the fleck of regret then in his eyes and not a second of it when he ripped it all away as if effortlessly ripping off a bandage. She had heard him whisper that he loved her one night, when he thought her asleep; but it was never whispered or even spoken again. Because he had drifted and then yanked the rug out from under her in a cruel display of his beloved mantra. _Life isn't fair._ And though there were no spectators, her cheeks had reddened with embarrassment; such kind that even now through her anger she would not hold it against him. He was who he was. _I'm alive._ For a brief second as she tucked herself in for another sleepless night, she wondered if he felt as broken as she. _I'm alive._

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's Note: There will be one last installment to this beginner's work. And there is where it will earn its M rating. Hopefully everyone is still enjoying.**_

The rain beat against the window in time with the diseased black heart inside his chest cavity. He hadn't been quick enough; his thrice-damned knee had buckled under the evasive move, berating him for even attempting such a movement. The purple V-neck pull over that hugged her waist had made reappearance on this dreary morning. He may have been a master at occlumency but even he couldn't fool his own traitorous mind from remembering in vivid flashes. It had been the damn muggle jeans that did it. They had hugged her curves in such a mature and womanly manner that made his heart ache and tremble for more than just a look. The dark color that contrasted against the pale skin of her hips that peeked out from underneath that pull over that teased the nerves in his calloused fingertips.

It all flooded back to him like an ocean wave rearing its head in the heart of a Tsunami. The surroundings blurred, the noises muffled into a bare minimum of whispers as the memories stroked his ego and teased his over sensitive psyche. That clawing feeling returned inside his chest cavity, enticing him to go to her and pull every scrap from her as if they were undeserving of encasing her figure. But he couldn't; he needed to flee before the remembrance of strawberry flavored lip-gloss floated over his tongue and the feeling of silk slipping through his fingers teased his nerves. She made it hard to breathe, to move and had someone approached him in such a state they'd assume he'd been petrified.

And then those whiskey colored eyes aligned with black pools of nothingness and the vertigo feeling encased him entirely. Across the hall, twenty paces from each other, it was a standoff of emotions, regret, longing, and vulnerability. Every sensitivity bore for anyone else who decided to grace their presence. No thought floated through his mind, no moment of action flexed his over-worn muscles. Frozen like the dead bark of the forest trees, unsteady breath rattling his chest cavity making him feels colder than usual. They stood there and stared, seemingly in a trance. Unexpecting to see the other after so long of avoidance. It was rude; to stare in such a manner; but both sets of brilliance were lost like a child in a store.

He wondered what she was feeling, if only for a brief moment. He was feeling every single thing he felt that first time. That first time those legs swayed towards him, that first time those perfect line of teeth scraped against his scars and what little unmarred flesh he had, the first time her unsteady breath danced with his and the first time such unforgivable words left those plump lips and broke through his ear drums. It was over for him right here and now. This was it; every trick he'd developed and practiced was slipping away; a nagging in his head telling him that two is better than one. Reminding him of the suffering he'd subjected himself to and only promising more. The organ beating in its tortured cavity slowed, the cracks going back and forth between deepening and healing. IN one moment it could all be over, a simple 180 degree turn would seal the fate of his life, his emotions, his _world._ And yet 20 feet, the same things could happen, but on the other end of the scale.

He wouldn't be left alone with nothing but a tumbler filled with amber, bitter tasting fluid. He wouldn't be left flat on his aching back with a crick in his neck watching those shadows on the ceiling taunt and bait him. Because he'd have it for real. He'd be able to give it right back; be able to create new shadows, ones that would last until his ending days and comfort him rather than berate and torment. All those times he'd heard people gossiping about quality of life is more than jut living; finally made sense to him. Two was better than one in any circumstance one was in; it doubled the chances of succeeding, lessened the blow of failure because the blame wasn't solely placed. It was divided. Right down the middle. He could throw it all away, in 20 paces. He'd never have to pick up a tumbler with somberness again if he simply stomped forward. But that meant he'd have to move, and his muscles ached. So he just stared back and willed her to make the move. The most un-gentlemanly thing to do.

A flinch tore at her muscles as his knee had buckled and she knew then, he'd made a fatal mistake. A fatal mistake that left him with _options,_ however. She watched the choices etch across the sullen edges of his profile as if they were being written in the air. She wondered what he was leaning more towards. _Running. He's a coward. He's only facing you because his knee was too weak to pivot in time. Life is not fair._ It was a brutal realization, one that was so truthful it stung her eyes and etched the cracks that much further into her heart. Long, pale fingers twitched at rigid sides and it all came flashing back.

That same look was strewn across his face the first time she ordered him to kiss her. His shoulders were wrenched back with the same rigidity as now, the whites of his eyes just as prominent and promising as the black orbs. His chest was unsteady with breath just like it had been against her palms when her knees settled alongside his hips for the first time. That bulging Adam's apple in his throat bobbed the same way, the same speed as it had when those unforgivable words left her lips. With a startling realization she dropped her hand from caressing said lips. She knew what those words would do to him, how they would rip into his soul and force it into the light. How they would gnaw at his brain until the blistering headache set in and the anguish of disapproval settled. It was far from fair, but she'd learned from the best that _life was not fair._

Thin but muscular calves twitched with the urge to move, lungs cramped with the need to grasp oxygen and trembles in her delicate fingers began. It was more than a grave mistake that they had made; and she always told herself they because it took two to ruin something so perfect, so serene and fairytale like. And the last few months of the cold sheets, restless mornings with an unsatisfied urge proved to her that two was indeed better than one. She thought she had had time to figure things out but he had disappeared and made it a point to never see her. Not long ago she thought what this moment might bring, that she'd be ready to face him and have nothing for him but a professional atmosphere to wrap around him. Now she wasn't so sure.

Her chest was constricting as if someone was pushing their full weight into it and desperation to make it go away was wearing thin. In simplest terms she was coming undone in a measly set of seconds. That _look_ the one that reminded her so much of what was was breaking her down like a toddler with building blocks. She was crippled in every sense of the word and certainly now, there was no time left. Watching as his legs trembled, that weak knee she used to massage while he slept adjacent to her shook harder than the other. Pleading with him not to finish the pivot motion or otherwise face devastating consequences. There was a war in his eyes, his bottom lip separating from his top in a gesture that proved he was just as crippled and unsure as she.

And then, there was nothing. _Nothing._ Not a single emotion, not a single flinch or twitch of muscle. He was Snape. The dungeon bat that was indifferent to everything around him. Closed off and hollowed out. In a matter of milliseconds he was gone. She hadn't even blinked, catching the moment his eyes shut down like emotional shutters. Knowing right then and there, he was not going to step towards her; he was going to turn on his heel without so much as a nod of acknowledgment. _Please. Life is not fair but it can be for a moment._ Begging was what she was withered down to, but even she knew it'd get her nowhere with this part of him. He'd hear none of it; see none of it.

The prediction was correct; he turned on his heel effortlessly as if he was one of Broadways highly trained ballerina's. The black of his robes consuming him like a black hole. One she felt like occupying. A sigh escaped her lips and her feet were moving again, her muscles aching from being stationary for too long. But they weren't going in the direction of the staff room like they had been before their confrontation. They were _following_ him. The psyche she had spent months nursing and restoring was berating her with that harsh brittle tone that reminded her of her mother when she was being a petulant child. Chastising her, warning her of the dangers she was likely to face, the irreparable damage that would soak her guilt in abundance. But the size 8's of her heels kept clicking down the stone corridor until the desperate eyes caught the slightest hint of tail ended robes evade the slam of a wooden door.

The sound was like music, forcing a blush to plump cheeks as remembrance of being pressed against it many times floated around behind her eyelids. When her toes were close enough that if one looked from the other side they'd see her shadow, a tentative fist raised and pressed against the splintering wood. She wondered how fast it had taken him to pour a glass of that precious amber liquid he seemed to enjoy so much lately. She wondered if that robe had been flung from his shoulders in some dramatic flourish across the room, or if maybe the thirteen buttons down his middle were being pried open with punishing fingers as he so often did when he was flustered or overly angry. The heat bubbling from the inside out and suffocating him.

It was completely silent, she couldn't even hear him breathe and for a second the thought of hallucination graced her mind, but that brittle voice from her tirade flowed through and assured her what she saw was far from hallucination. He was there, right on the other side of the door, and he was holding his breath. He didn't want her to know he was there; waiting her out the way a fox would a rabbit. His chest had gone from tight to closed and the desperate breath his brain was begging for was starting to blacken his vision. He could let her in with one twist of his wrist; he could stare into those eyes dismissively until she got so flustered she stormed off. But that fluster would do him in and the blush that would no doubt color those freckled cheeks would make him wither like a rose in wintertime. So he continued to stand there, back against the door, feeling the heat of his humiliation, his anger, his hurt, begin to bubble and sear his skin under the heavy wool of his robes.

The way her hand had crept to her lips and then jerked unexpectedly down was his undoing. He knew exactly from the way her eyes glazed over what thought had permeated her thoughts. And it made him stiffen; forced those famous walls to erect and close everything off. No gate to enter, no base to climb up and over. Shut down completely. He dared to let his eyes drift closed; and he wasn't disappointed. HE watched as the claws raked down his chest baring his insides and squeezing onto the nearly black organ that resided there. Reminding him with a caress that this is what he was. Black, hollow, open yet closed. _Nothing._ He was _nothing._ It was beautifully tragic, but with her on the other side, her perfume permeating through the age-old wood spoke differently. It caressed his ears with a teasing arousal that sought only to leave him high and dry. _Life is not fair._ And that was that.

She knew all his passwords, the reversals for his wards; and she knew better than anyone that he was too absorbed in his ways to give thought to modifying or changing them. Despite what they went through. She was the only one outside Minerva who had access anyway. She wouldn't tell anyone; she wouldn't infringe his privacy or trust in such a brutal manner. But as she stood there, the cold of the stone walls beginning to creep and settle around her, she wondered if it would be such a betrayal to push use her advantages. _What was one more betrayal to add to their list?_ The question, though self thought, was enough to make her visibly wince. What she had done, what she had said to him, was an ultimate betrayal. Though to most, it would have been the kindest, most endearing and most valuable gift one could receive. Not to him. To him it was a soul-ripping lie. It was everything he never wanted; not even from _her._

He'd rather be smothered with solitude than risk losing. Anything that required him to have hope was a definite crash course; a situation he'd turn a blind eye to and not even attempt. Why try if it meant there was a possibility to fail? He'd failed so much over the course of his life, drug many others down with him and watched others make sacrifices that were hardly worth the outcome. But as her delicate ears strained for a sign of his presence, nimble fingers were working her wand from the thigh holster, her brain already set and ready to push past that last barrier. Not knowing what his reaction would be, not knowing if damage would be repaired or added to what was already there. And quite frankly, she didn't care. She'd give as well as she got, if he was brave enough to give any to begin with.

It took all of three seconds, his feet hardly shuffling out of the path of the door as it opened. The slight breeze was equivalent to a kick in the chest. Knocking the wind out of him in a matter of seconds. Cold, harsh, unforgiving. _Like me._ He kept his back to her, he didn't have to turn around; those eyes would be burning like a midnight fire, plump cheeks would have a rose tint spreading down her neck and across her chest. And if he guessed correct, which he typically did, that same chest would be heaving under her robes. From anger, exertion, he did not know. But it'd be there ready to assault his eyes with the first glance. So he took step forward, straight back, rigid shoulders, as if he wasn't paying any attention to her presence whatsoever.

The electricity that shot through him was instantaneous, burning up his bicep from his elbow and rolling straight through his shoulder where it confined his chest in a merciless grip. She was touching him. _Grasping. Gripping._ It was never just a touch with her. The pinch of her nails brought flashes of better scenes, erotic scenes that made the hole in his heart fill just a bit more. The muscles in his neck strained against resistance; wanting to twist so his head would reach of his shoulder and his eyes would pierce her. But he wouldn't allow it, regardless of the cramping it was causing. The split second that her hand had disappeared, her arm was there. Both of them. Around his waist, squeezing his torso like a child would a teddy bear. _I'm so sorry._ He wasn't sure if it came from his lips, or hers, but he heard it in his head as a whisper of grief and remorse. His frame slackened slightly, enough to put the angry muscles at ease for the briefest of moments.

 _ **TBC**_


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